If an armadillo and an alligator had Facebook pages, we all know who would have more friends

Since moving to the Lowcountry nearly 13 years ago, I have had exactly four run-ins with armadillos.

The first was the one I ran over.

Someone else killed him, so that’s not on me. But the weight of my car made the armadillo’s shell snap, and it was — unfortunately — as satisfying as popping bubble wrap.

I did not run over this armadillo on purpose, though. Also, I have never tried to relive that moment by running over another armadillo’s body, nor have I checked YouTube for armadillo-popper videos, but I have wanted to.

And I am ashamed.

The next armadillo was the one sitting right outside my apartment door.

I opened my door.

I screamed “NO!”

I shut my door.

Then I sat on my couch and imagined the worst-case scenario of that situation.

“He almost came in here. He almost came in here.”

Without meaning to, I pre-emptively notified my own next of kin.

The third armadillo is the one who ambushed me and two of my friends late at night.

We were standing around, gossiping and laughing.

The armadillo changed that.

The fourth armadillo, the most recent armadillo, is the one I almost walked into.

He was standing on a path in the dark.

When I finally noticed him, I felt oddly watched. I know they’re nearly blind, I get that. But he was watching me.

My presence did not scare him, and from what I’ve since learned about armadillos, he should’ve been terrified.

His presence, on the other hand, immobilized me.

When I finally had the strength to turn around and leave, I made a conscious decision to allow myself some walk-home whimpering.

“Ehhhh. Urrrrrr. Aiiiiii. Waaaaa. Bahaaaaaa.”

It was the same reaction I had last year when a giant rat blocked me from exiting the Fifth Avenue-59th Street subway station in New York City.

The rat made eye contact with me and was like “You’re not taking these stairs — in case that wasn’t clear.”

This armadillo’s facial expression, however, said, “Why don’t you like me?”

On the walk back, I felt guilty. Because his facial expression was right. I really didn’t like him. But what did he expect from me? Immediate acceptance? A compliment? Casual conversation that overlooks his pig snout and armor?

I wondered whether he had been newly reincarnated and maybe just hadn’t yet caught his reflection in a window.

Maybe he doesn’t know he looks like a nutria that just got a job protecting the king, or as though his name should be Rick O’Shay, or that the first thing people say about him is always “Leprosy!”

Mostly, though, I wondered if this armadillo and all of Beaufort County armadillos are jealous of alligators for their photogenic qualities and pre-historic mystique.

I wouldn’t blame them.

No one ever talks about armadillos. No one says, “Grab your camera! Guess who I saw on the banks of the pond today!”

No one lays claim to armadillos the way they do gators. “Oh, that’s Arnie, the Palmetto Dunes armadillo. We just like to watch him … eat ants and dig and, I guess, waddle.”

These creatures can live to be 15 years old. You’d think that would be enough time for at least one of us to have grown attached to at least one armadillo once.

Even as roadkill, they fail to draw emotion.

A dead raccoon? A dead squirrel? They get an “Oh dear. That’s horrible.”

But armadillos always look like they were just shot with a ray-gun. They get a “Hahaha. Oh man! His feet are pointed up.”

In the days after the encounter with my fourth armadillo, I did some research.

I mainly wanted to find out if they were misunderstood.

So I suffered through many photos of their shiny bodies, their shiny babies and their shiny long tails.

And also thousands of pictures of maimed red-velvet armadillo grooms cakes.

How are armadillo cakes more graphic-looking than actual dead armadillos? How am I more emotionally prompted to mourn the loss of a cake than a mammal?

Speaking of food, I learned that some people eat armadillos.

In South America, they grill them shell-on and then eat them out of what is now a shell-bowl.

In Florida, they do whatever they want to them.

They bake them, eat them with onions, make meatloaf with them.

If you ever find yourself with eight pounds of ground armadillo, you can make sloppy joes for 50 people.

That’s literally the recipe name too, “Sloppy Joes for 50,” like we’re mocking the armadillo by showing him how many friends we have over for dinner.

Armadillos don’t even get a cool culinary identity. They don’t even get mentioned in their own recipe name. No “Slopadillos.” No “Armadillicious.” No “Sloppy Arnies” even.

It doesn’t seem fair.

But I guess I now have conversation fodder to make my inevitable run-in with armadillo No. 5 more polite and less judgmental.

Though maybe I should start with something lighter.

Like “Good-bye!”

This story was originally published September 12, 2016 at 4:23 PM with the headline "If an armadillo and an alligator had Facebook pages, we all know who would have more friends."